“I’ll risk him,” returned Adelaide. “Any way, when I hire anything done I expect it to suit me, or I don’t pay, of course.”
This remark was well-timed, for Alice could not go back without the money, and with a heavy heart she sat down to her task. But the tears blinded her eyes, and so impeded her progress that the clock struck eight before her work was done.
“Now, put these flowers in my hair, and tie my sash just as yours was tied,” said the heartless Adelaide, as she saw Alice about to put on her bonnet.
In a box which stood upon the table lay the bead purse, and glancing at that Alice did whatever was required of her, nor scarcely felt a pang when at last the toilet was completed, and Adelaide Huntington stood before her arrayed in the selfsame dress which she had worn but two short years ago.
“I meant you should dress me all the time,” said Adelaide, glancing complacently at herself in the mirror. “I meant you should dress me—mother knows so little about such matters, and then, too, she is sick up stairs with a violent headache, but I do not need you any longer—what are you waiting for?” she continued, as Alice made no movement to go.
“I am waiting for the money which I want so much to-night,” answered Alice.
“Ah, yes, the money,” said Adelaide, making a feint to examine the purse, which she knew was empty.
Alice knew it, too, all too soon, and sinking down upon a little stool she cried aloud:
“What shall we do? The wood is almost gone, and I baked the last cake to-night. Oh, father, father, what will you do to-morrow?”
Adelaide Huntington was not hard-hearted enough to be unmoved by this appeal, and forgetting entirely the soap, she glided from the room to which she soon returned, bringing a basket of food for Alice, whom she comforted with the assurance that she should be paid as soon as possible.